


Weather For Ducks

by kathkin



Series: A Few Notes in the Song of Creation (a Lord of the Rings Dæmon AU) [13]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 12:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: Sam had always been a touch shy of Frodo. Ever since they were first introduced, when Sam was a dribbly-nosed little boy and Frodo just in his tweens. He’d thought Frodo was far older than he was, his being tall for his age and already two years settled. He’d come back from the East Farthing with a funny Buckland accent Sam hadn’t always been able to understand. And then there was his dæmon.Sam delivers a package and gets introduced to a new friend.





	Weather For Ducks

**Author's Note:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

It had been grey and drizzling all day, but only as Sam reached the foot of the hill did the heavens open. The rain came down the hillside in a great windy sheet, soaking him through his cloak and threatening to soak Mister Bilbo’s package. He bundled it up tight as he could in his arms and raced up the path, squelching and slipping in the mud, Harebell coasting duck-shaped at his heels.

They reached Bag End panting and streaked with mud. Sam made to knock but Harebell flitted wren-shaped to his shoulder and said, “it’s open.”

She’d always had the better memory. Sam shouldered open the door and shut it sharply behind himself, the bass click of the old latch sealing out the rush of the rain. There he stood, dripping onto the mat and breathless.

“Mister Bilbo?” he called. There was no answer. 

One-handed, Sam worked down the hood of his coat and stepped fully into the smial. Harebell paced behind him, in the more comfortable – if damp – shape of a dog. A little shaggy terrier today. She looked up and him, and he down at her.

He was too shy to call out again, too shy even to talk aloud to Harebell. There was a deep, old sentiment that it was rude to talk to your dæmon before your betters – or in your better’s house, as the case may be – and though Sam knew full well Mister Bilbo didn’t hold with that, at times like this, when Bag End was quiet and cold and almost foreboding, a creeping shyness took hold.

The hall was very long and like all smials shadowy and dim in rainy weather. No-one had lit the lamps. He could hear the deep ticking of the heirloom clock, and rain drumming against the windowpanes. Outside there was a distance churning of thunder that startled them into motion. He stepped deeper into the hill.

From the drawing room he could hear voices. One of them was Mister Frodo; the other he couldn’t place. A lad’s voice, speaking in hushed tones, with an odd quality he couldn’t put his finger on. He couldn’t make out the words.

He walked on, past the drawing room door, and again called out, “Mister Bilbo? Your package.”

The response came not from deeper in the smial, but from behind him. A fumbling in the drawing room, a stumbling of footsteps, and the door opened. Out popped Mister Frodo’s dark head. “Sam,” he said. “I’m so sorry – Bilbo said to expect you but I forgot.”

“That’s alright, sir,” said Sam.

Frodo stepped into the hall, his dæmon fluttered behind him, and closed the door. “Goodness, you aren’t half wet.”

“Oh – sorry.” Sam looked balefully at the ring of rain-water forming beneath the hem of his cloak. “It’s raining something fierce.”

Frodo glanced in the direction of the front door as if he had only just noticed the drumming rain. It was on the tip of Sam’s tongue to ask who it was in the drawing room when he leapt into action. “I’ll take that,” he said, prying the damp package from Sam’s grip. “Come into the kitchen and get dry.”

“I ought to be getting home,” said Sam. 

“Don’t be silly, you’re soaked through,” said Frodo. “Stay here till the rain lets up, I’m sure it won’t be long.”

He ushered Sam into the kitchen and went on ushering till Sam hung up his coat and jacket by the stove and sat himself down. “Here,” said Frodo, handing him a towel. “I’ll get another one for your feet.”

Sam was muddy up to the ankles and probably ought to have cleaned up before walking all through the smial, if he’d thought of it. He dried off Harebell then worked at his own hair till Frodo came back in.

“Bilbo’s had to go over the hill,” Frodo said as he hefted the kettle off the stove. “Family business – I won’t bore you. Tea?”

“You don’t have to,” said Sam.

“It’s alright, I like to,” said Frodo, already pouring, his dæmon flapping about him as if supervising his work. “Look, I think the rain’s letting up.”

It was. The thrumming against the window had faded to a low, cheerful patter. Despite himself Sam found he was disappointed. He’d have liked to have stayed a while longer – but he was keen to get away. He dithered.

He’d always been a touch shy of Frodo. Ever since they were first introduced, when Sam was a dribbly-nosed little boy and Frodo just in his tweens. He’d thought Frodo was far older than he was, his being tall for his age and already two years settled. He’d come back from the East Farthing with a funny Buckland accent Sam hadn’t always been able to understand. As far as he was concerned, Buckland might as well have been the other side of the world.

And then there was Frodo’s dæmon. Sam had never seen an insect dæmon before Frodo. His first thought had been that Frodo must be someone very special, to have such a rare dæmon. But then he’d heard others talking and the things they said had put a fear in him. A sinister and secretive dæmon, they said. How can you trust someone whose dæmon lives in the night. 

It was rot, all of it. Sam knew that now, and knew very well that people had only talked so out of mild, gossiping resentment at Mister Bilbo having found an heir so late in life, by such an unconventional and scandalous path. They’d stopped once they got to know Frodo better and found just how much they liked him.

But Frodo’s dæmon _was_ a strange one. More often than not you would see her sitting on his hair or his shoulder or his jacket, all but motionless, giving no clue as to what she and Frodo might be thinking or feeling. When you saw Frodo from a distance you might think he didn’t have a dæmon, she hid herself so well.

And she never spoke. In all the years Sam had been in and out of Bag End, he’d never once heard her voice. Not even Harebell had heard her speak.

“Penny for them?” Frodo set a teacup down before him.

“Hm?” said Sam.

“It’s just you looked very thoughtful.” Frodo sipped his tea, his dæmon resting now on his wrist.

“Oh, I was just –” _I was thinking about you_ wouldn’t go down well. “I was – well, y’see – I was wondering what might be in Mister Bilbo’s parcel.”

Reaching across the table, Frodo gave the parcel a friendly squeeze. “Books, I should think,” he said gravely.

“What sort of books?” said Sam. Harebell clambered onto his lap, now cat-shaped, ears pricked up.

“Let’s see,” said Frodo, opening up the package. As he did so his dæmon fluttered from his wrist, touching lightly upon the string, upon the rim of Frodo’s cup, upon the paper. Sam tracked her movements as Frodo worked the string loose. “The one thing we always need more of, of course – Bag End _certainly_ doesn’t have enough books packed into it – there we are.”

There were two volumes in the package, both of them bound in leather. Frodo picked up one and then the other, his dæmon dancing around him in clear fascination. Sam had rarely seen her so animated; he couldn’t take his eyes away and neither could Harebell.

“More history,” said Frodo. “And – what’s this? Something in Elvish –”

Abruptly his little dæmon dove into him, nestling inside the collar of his shirt as if she’d had a fright. Sam realised, heavy hearted, that he and Harebell had been caught.

“Hm?” said Frodo to his dæmon. She said nothing, but the flick of her wings seemed to explain all. “Ah.” He set down the book.

“We weren’t staring,” Sam blurted out. Harebell shrank down on his lap, slipping into a scruffy, mottled mutt.

“It’s alright,” said Frodo. “I can – well that is to say, Gentian can – I can put Gentian away, if it’s bothering you.”

He spoke falteringly, but not unhappily. His tone was altogether too light. Sam wondered, how often did he make that offer – and how many people accepted? He couldn’t imagine asking someone to put their dæmon away.

“Of course it doesn’t bother me,” he said.

“Oh,” said Frodo. “Good.” Gentian fluttered out from his shirt collar, settling into a more usual perch on his hair.

“We was only wondering,” said Harebell, resting her chin on the table.

“Hush,” said Sam, his hand on her back.

Frodo looked at him, but he remained unforthcoming. He looked at Harebell, and said, “what were you wondering?”

Harebell tilted back her head to look at Sam. Sam swallowed his pride, and said, “we were wondering if we could have a look.”

“At Gentian?” said Frodo.

“Yes,” said Sam.

Frodo motioned vaguely at his hair. “Right here.”

“I meant,” said Sam. “Well – we meant close up.”

“Oh,” said Frodo. “Oh! Um.”

“I was just asking,” Sam blathered. “And I didn’t mean nothing by it and I know I don’t have no right to ask, sir, and I –”

“It’s quite alright,” said Frodo.

“And I ought to be going, really, and I’m sorry about the mud,” said Sam. “I know I shouldn’t have asked, and –”

“Sam.” Frodo held out his hand, and Gentian fluttered neatly into it. “Here,” he said, stretching out his hand across the table.

Sam exchanged a glance with Harebell. Leaning forward as one, they looked.

From a distance – from the distance Sam usually saw her – Gentian looked like nothing much more than a grey splotch. Looking close, he was struck at first by how soft she was, fuzzy all over like a flying mouse. Her wings were banded dark and pale like the stripes on a tabby cat. Her feelers were like trailing feathers.

Lowering his head to look still closer he saw for the first time her face, her dark, bead-like eyes, unblinking and faceted like crystal.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

At once, Gentian’s wings flicked and she was gone, humming back to Frodo’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam, not at all sure what he had said wrong. Perhaps he should have said nothing at all. It had been rude of him to ask to see Frodo’s dæmon, let alone make personal comments – even complimentary ones.

“No – no, it’s alright,” said Frodo.

“Should I not have –”

“No, it isn’t – I’m flattered, truly.”

Then why did Sam feel like he’d said altogether the wrong thing? “I’ll not ask again,” he said.

“I really didn’t mind,” said Frodo. “It’s – oh, this is ridiculous.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead.

As suddenly as she had flown from Frodo’s hand, Gentian left his shoulder and settled on the table between them – so suddenly that even Frodo was startled.

Gentian turned a circle on the spot, looking at each of them in turn, and then to Sam said, “thank you. You’re very kind.”

Gentian’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. Very like Frodo’s voice, but firmer and a touch lower. Gentian’s voice was the second voice he had heard in the drawing room.

In an instant Sam saw just what he’d said wrong. His hands flew to his mouth and Harebell flitted into a mouse and rushed for the cover of his pocket. “Oh, hell!”

“It’s alright,” said Gentian.

“Oh, I have put my foot in it,” said Sam. “I’m so sorry.”

“Really,” said Gentian. “Happens all the time.”

Of course, of _course_ it had been Gentian he had heard. He should have realised at once. There was no-one else in Bag End. It could only have been Frodo’s dæmon. He’d just been too blinkered to think of it.

To his horror, he began to blush.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“You don’t mind?” said Gentian. Behind him Frodo was watching Sam’s face and Sam saw the bright, alert look in his eyes in the pricked-up way Gentian held his antenna.

“Mind?” he said. “No.”

Gentian’s wings twitched with the faintest of sounds, and Sam understood. That steady, unsettling quiet that people took for aloofness at best or downright rudeness at worst. He understood.

“I don’t mind a bit,” he said, trying to sound careless, sounding too careless. “I mean, not to say I don’t – well, I – I dunno.”

“Do you really think I’m beautiful?” Gentian asked.

Sam swallowed, his throat tight.

It had just come out. He’d meant it but he didn’t know if he could sat it again, with Frodo looking straight at him the way he was. 

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

“ _Really_ ,” said Gentian. “My.”

Softly, kitten-shaped, Harebell climbed from Sam’s pocket onto the table, where she nosed gingerly at Gentian. Gentian fluttered his wings, and climbed up onto her back.

Sam and Frodo quietly watched their dæmons play – was that the right word, or were they both now too old to play? _Embrace_ might be better, but that would be scandalous.

Cat, Sam reflected, was one of the forms Harebell was sure to miss most when the time came. And the time would be coming soon now. Harebell had been slowing down for over a year.

He’d always known she’d settle as something with four feet and fur and a tale but those past months every other form she took was dog-shaped. It didn’t feel the way he’d thought it would. 

He’d thought slowing down would be like relaxing into a bath after a long day, but in truth it was like the year he’d started growing out before he grew up. Harebell had lost the free elegance of being truly unsettled, but she did not yet know what she was, which meant Sam in turn didn’t know what _he_ was.

Any day now, surely, she’d say to him; but deep down they both knew they had a way to go yet.

“The rain’s stopped,” said Frodo.

The gardens were fresh and wet and muddy, and a bird had come out to sing to the sun.

“We ought to be getting home,” said Sam. “Since the rain’s stopped.”

On the table, Harebell sat back on her haunches, Gentian perched upon her ear like a girl’s bow.

“Finish your tea first,” said Frodo, and so Sam did.

Later, in the hall, he shrugged on his still-damp jacket and considered his cloak, which was warm from the stove but hardly dry. He draped it over his arm.

“Oh – Sam,” said Frodo, hurrying down the passage.

“Hm?” said Sam. Harebell had been in the shape of a piglet, in preparation for the mud, but at the sound of Frodo’s voice she changed into a glossy-haired corgi.

“I’ve been meaning to give you this.” Frodo held out one of Mister Bilbo’s books. “We thought – that is to say, I think you’ll like it.”

Sam took the book, which was slender and bound in old, dark leather. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, proffering it back. “I’ll take me an awful long time to read it – I’m still learning –”

“Take as long as you need, Sam,” said Frodo, pressing the book on him. He smiled brightly, Gentian perched, wings spread, upon his curly hair, and wings beat in Sam’s stomach.

“Thank you.” He hugged the book to his chest. “You’re too kind.”

“Any time,” said Frodo, and he touched Sam lightly on the arm. “Best be off, before the rain starts again. Come back soon.”

“I will, sir,” said Sam, backing out onto the damp path. “Good-bye.”

Harebell stayed a corgi until they reached the gate, waddling along beside him. Outside, on the hill, she huffed and grew into a shaggy, grey and white sheepdog. “Funny pair, that,” she said.

“Special, like,” said Sam.

“Very,” said Harebell, and leading the way she trotted on downhill.

**Author's Note:**

> Dæmons in this fic:
> 
> **Frodo and Gentian:** [pale tussock moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calliteara_pudibunda#/media/File:Calliteara_pudibunda.jpg).  
>  **Sam and Harebell:** unsettled.


End file.
